


Clara and the Curator

by FernDavant



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6863716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDavant/pseuds/FernDavant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a whim, Clara takes a trip to the Undergallery without Me. She meets the strangest man there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clara and the Curator

The Undergallery was not TARDIS proof, it seemed, which Clara thought was a bit of an oversight, considering just _who_ the subject was of many of the gallery’s paintings.

Looking at various portraits of _him_ and the artistic ephemera that followed him around the universe had never really been Clara’s intention. Or maybe it had. She was in a funny sort of mood, and Me had scarpered when they touched down, probably knowing Clara better than she knew herself, letting her wander idly around the place at her ease.

‘Course, she was beginning to regret that, once she’d spotted that artistic nude of the Chinny Doctor. Clara was moving away from that little peculiarity and towards a series of Van Gogh paintings when she heard a voice behind her. “Would you like a jelly baby?”

Clara jumped and whirled around. She’d thought she was alone here—it was her understanding that the gallery didn’t get many, if any, visitors, and it was half-past six in the evening—but she’d clearly been mistaken. She should’ve known better; why else would the lights still be on?

But the man she saw did not seem perturbed by her presence, nor was he in any hurry to remove her from this place. The man leaned heavily against a cane, giving her a broad, vaguely manic smile. He had bulging blue eyes in a very expressive face, and a head full of curly, unmanageable, bright white hair. He appeared to be fairly old, at least her Gran’s age, but there was something about him that seemed even older. Clara had been friends with enough nigh-immortals to recognize the look in the eyes of someone who was almost unfathomably old. She was beginning to recognize the look in herself when she looked in the mirror these days.

Clara tilted her head at the man, and decided to answer his question. “No, thank you.”

The man motioned to a nearby bench, and Clara sat down on it with him. There was something familiar about him. Had Clara been wise, she probably would have made her excuses and snuck back to her TARDIS, but ‘wise’ wasn’t something anyone had ever accused Clara of being, and she found she was too curious not to keep talking to the man.

The man was silent for a moment as he sat down on the bench, hands still resting on the cane between his legs, staring sidelong at her with that grin that made Clara feel like he was keeping a secret from her. “Clara Oswald.”

Clara raised both eyebrows. She hadn’t heard her full name used by anyone in ages, and she and Me tended to stick with aliases. And for this man to know it… “You’re with UNIT, then? And who are you? I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Hmm, UNIT,” the man rumbled. He had an incredibly deep, sonorous voice, a voice for radio, each word perfectly enunciated, his accent quite plummy. “Yes, I suppose I am with UNIT. I am the Curator of the Undergallery.”

Clara wasn’t sure how he’d managed to imply capitalization with just his tone of voice, but she was definitely impressed. “Sorry I broke into your gallery.”

“Ah, no. No apologizing. You’re quite welcome here.”

Clara bit the inside of her lip. “Have I met you before? Do I know you?”

“Does anyone ever know anyone?” the man asked, sounding vaguely like a stoned philosophy student. “But we have met before, yes.”

Something clicked in Clara’s memory. “You were here! When the Doctor saved Gallifrey. I caught a glimpse of you. I think you talked to him.”

The man inclined his head. “Not the first time we have met, though, I should think.”

Clara tilted her head, studying him, looking him in the eyes. And then, well. She felt embarrassed. Because she’d know him anywhere. “Doc—“

“Curator,” the Doc—the _Curator_ corrected, “I think you’ll find.”

Clara raised an eyebrow and tried not to snort at him. She knew him well enough to let him play whatever game he was playing. Besides, there were more important concerns. “You remember me?”

A shrug, a shrug so recognizable that it was, absurdly, painful to see. “Clara Oswald, how could I ever forget you?”

“Well, a memory block seemed to do the trick,” Clara said, unable to resist the urge to tease him for long.

“I must confess; I’m getting quite old. I do suspect I’ve forgotten how to forget you.”

“Does that mean you were play-acting, or—“

“It means human-compatible tends to last for a human lifespan.”

“Ah,” Clara said, watching as the Curator pulled a bag of jelly babies from one pocket, placing it gently between the two of them before he pulled a sandwich wrapped in cling-film from the other, gently unfolding it, taking a bite before holding it out for Clara. She declined again, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m retired,” the Curator said in a tone that indicated this was a hilarious joke. “So I decided I needed to get a job.”

Clara obliged him by laughing at this. “Isn’t there a world out there to save?”

The Curator’s face grew dark at this, and for the first time Clara got a hint at just how old he really was. “Yes, I suppose there is. And I hope, and I know, that people like you are out there saving it. But I’m afraid I’m rather tired. Running out of time, really. Hah! Time.”

Clara glanced at him, swallowing thickly. “You mean?”

“Thirteen seems like forever. Twenty-six is frankly an imaginary number. But then, you know, it goes so fast. I’ve never understood time very well at all, ultimately.”

“No, you never did,” Clara said softly. “How long do you, you know?”

The Curator snorted now. “Now! Don’t you dare get maudlin on me. I’ve miles to go before I sleep. You know that one, I’m sure.”

Clara rolled her eyes, ignoring how they’d gone a bit watery. It didn’t seem likely that he would retire in one place, even with only one life left. But then, she remembered Trenzalore. “I’m sure there’s a bit you get up to here.”

“A bit,” the Curator admitted, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m no scientific advisor, certainly, but I do enjoy an afternoon out here and there.”

“Hm,” Clara said, studying him again. “If you ever need any help, I could give you my number.”

“What makes you think I don’t already have it?” the Curator asked. “You’re surprisingly non-linear.”

Clara laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you should. Linearity is terrible overrated.” He finished the sandwich, shoved the cling-film into his pocket, grabbed a handful of jelly babies from the packet and shoved them in his mouth inelegantly. She rather suspected he’d swallowed them whole, like pills.

She doubted she’d ever have him entirely figured out. She liked it that way.

Clara gave him a smile. “I should go, I think.”

“Maybe not. Maybe yes. Who can tell?” the Curator replied enigmatically. “I must say, it was nice having dinner with you. Do come back.”

“I think I will,” Clara agreed, standing up.

She took one last look at the Curator, rested a hand on his cheek fondly, placing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “Goodbye, _Curator_.”

With a manic grin he grabbed her hand, kissed it. “Never goodbye. ‘Till we meet again.”

“’Till we meet again,” Clara agreed.


End file.
